"Wait until we get un-togged," suggested Spike, for he, too, had on a uniform, hoping for a chance to play. But it had not come.

It was late when Joe and his chum got back to their room. They had met congenial spirits at the popular resort, and a sort of post-mortem had been held over the game. But, though the faults of many players were pointed out, and though Joe received due praise for his work, little had been said of Weston's poor pitching.

"It's just as I told you," declared Ricky. "There are too many members of the Anvil Club, and affiliated societies, and they hate to hurt Weston's feelings, I guess."

The 'varsity pitcher was not present.

"Well, it sure is a queer state of affairs," commented Spike, as he and Joe reached their apartment. "I wish we could do something. It's a shame, with a pitcher who has your natural abilities, Joe, that----"

"Oh, forget it, old man, and go to sleep," advised Joe. "I'm much obliged for your interest in me, but maybe it will come out right after all."

"Humph! It won't unless we make it," murmured Spike.

The coaches tried some shifting about of players when the next practice came on, though Weston was still retained on the mound. Joe was told to go in at shortstop, and he made good there, more by hard work than natural ability, for he wanted to show that he would do his duty wherever he was placed. Weston seemed to be doing better, and he got into more plays, not being content to merely pitch.

"We'll trim Harvard!" was the general opinion, and Yale stock, that had gone down, took an upward move.

The Harvard game was soon to come--one of the contests in the championship series, though Yale generally regarded the fight with Princeton as the deciding test.

It was one afternoon following some sharp practice, when the 'varsity seemed on edge, that Joe said to Spike:

"Come on, let's take a walk. It's too nice to go back and bone."

"All right--I'm with you. We'll get out in the country somewhere."

Weston pa.s.sed as this was said, and though he nodded to the two, there was no cordiality in it.

Joe and Spike thoroughly enjoyed their little excursion, and it was almost dusk when they returned. As they entered their room, Ricky came out to greet them.

"What have you fellows been doing?" he demanded. "I came in to have a chat, and I found your room empty. A little later I heard you in it, and then, after I had found my pipe which I dropped under the bed, and went in again, you weren't to be seen. Yet I was sure I heard you moving about in it."

"We haven't been home since practice," declared Spike.

"You say you heard someone in our room?" inquired Joe.

"I sure did."

"Maybe it was Hoppy."

"No, for I asked him, and he said no."

"Any messages or letters left?" asked Spike, looking around, but no missives were in sight.

"Oh, well, maybe it was spooks," declared Joe. "I'm going to get on something comfortable," and he went to the clothes closet, presently donning an old coat and trousers. Ricky made himself comfortable in an armchair, and the three talked for some time.

"I say, what's that on your sleeve?" asked Ricky of Joe during a pause.

"It looks like red ink. See, you've smeared Spike's trigonometry with it."

"Quit it, you heathen!" exclaimed the aggrieved one.

"Red ink," murmured Joe, twisting his sleeve around to get a look at the crimson spot. He touched it with his finger. "It's paint--red paint!" he exclaimed, "and it's fresh!"

CHAPTER XXIII

JOE'S TRIUMPH

"Red paint!" exclaimed Ricky.

"Who put it there?" asked Spike, and he looked queerly at Joe.

"Not I," replied the pitcher. "And yet it's fresh. I can't understand.

You say you heard someone in here, Ricky?"

"As sure as guns."

"Maybe it was some of those pesky Freshies trying some of their funny work," suggested Spike.

"Hazing and tricks are about over," came from Joe, as he looked more closely at the red spot. "And yet someone seems to have been in here, daubing up my clothes. I wonder if they tried it on any more? Lucky it was an old suit."

He looked in the closet, but the coat, with the crimson spot on the sleeve, seemed to be the only one soiled.

"I have it!" suddenly cried Spike.

"What, for cats' sake?" asked Ricky.

"It's good luck!"

"Good luck?" demanded Joe. "How do you make that out? These aren't my glad rags, that's a fact, but still paint is paint, and I don't want it daubed all over me. Good luck? Huh!"

"Of course it is," went on Spike. "Don't you see? That's red--Harvard's hue. We play them next week, you'll pitch and we've got their color already. Hurray! We're going to win! It's an omen!"

"Caesar's pineapples!" exclaimed Ricky. "So it is. I'm going to grind out a song on it," and, having rather a knack with verse, he was soon scribbling away in rhyme. "How's this?" he demanded a few minutes later.

"Listen fellows, and pick out a good tune for it," and he recited:

"We've got Harvard's colors, We'll tell it to you.

The red always runs At the sight of the blue.

So cheer boys, once more, This bright rainbow hue, The Red will turn purple When mixed with the blue!"

"Eh? How's that?" he asked proudly. "Pretty nifty I guess! Your Uncle Pete isn't so slow. I'm going to have the fellows practice this for the game, when you pitch, Joe."

"Maybe I won't."

"Oh, yes you will. But what do you think of it?"

"Rotten!" exclaimed Spike.